


The Ghost of the Uchiha

by Missing Nin (Baelavel)



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, M/M, Minor Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Reincarnation, Sudden memory recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baelavel/pseuds/Missing%20Nin
Summary: Uchiha Madara.He was the strongest the Uchiha clan had to offer. A legend in both power and skill.Reincarnated people rarely remember anything of their past lives other than glimpses that they may experience within dreams. But those memories are still there, locked in their soul, and able to be awoken with the right techniques. The pain of experiencing a tumultuous life again is mind-numbing.Uchiha Madara lives again as the world is thrown into political and violent chaos.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. The Ghost of the Uchiha

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This AU is set in the same universe as all of my AU Naruto pieces. War has taken hold of the world and the shinobi nations are in disarray. Within the chaos, a jutsu is cast that seeks to bring a tremendous power equal to gods back into the shinobi world.

Breathless gasps gathered and mingled with the gentle spring breeze as two adolescent boys, who lay side by side in the lush grass. Both were of dark hair, though one’s shoulder length tresses were a rich mahogany, while the other’s was the blue black of a raven’s wing. In the midday sun, fresh from a spar and with sweat coating their skin, there was no true difference between them. 

Here, in this clearing that was their sanctuary, they were boys who fought for the exhilarating thrill of adrenaline, not for their lives or the lives of those that they held dear. Here, in this clearing, where they never dared to utter the clan name of the other, they were friends who need not embrace the hatred that they knew they should share for one another.

“It’s likely a matter of time before this field loses its safety and tranquility,” Madara murmured absently as his dark eyes drew open to view the fluffy clouds that lazily dragged along the sapphire sky. 

Hashirama turned his head to glance at his friend, with his lips pulling down into a thoughtful frown. “We should have warning before that happens. Usually there are signs.”

“Usually,” Madara shook his head as he repeated the word and met his friend’s gaze. “We’re at the edge point of two powerful clans. What other signs could there possibly be?” 

“Ah-- ...well….” Hashirama trailed off as his frown deepened. The brunette went silent for a beat before he drew in a long breath before releasing it in an exaggerated sigh. “Scouts, or signs of battle, or….”

“Or merely living in a war zone,” Madara responded, his tone flat and dry as he propped himself up on one elbow to better face the other boy. His sarcasm was rewarded with another sigh from his companion as Hashirama rolled himself over and sat prostrate in front of him.

“You’re right, forgive me.”

“Don’t apologize!” Madara snapped and pushed his friend to force him to sit up and back. “You shouldn’t say sorry so easily, you’re a shinobi.”

Hashirama’s face dropped. “I’ve made you angry,” he mumbled forlornly causing his companion’s left eye to visibly twitch. He could never wrap his head around how someone could be almost servient with their behavior and still exhibit such strength, pride, and power.

“You need to stop getting so easily depressed,” Madara shook his head as he pulled himself fully up into a sitting position and raked his long fingers through his thick, sweat matted hair. He caught his friend’s gaze as he dropped his hand into his lap and saw the glint of devious amusement flicker into their depths as the sadness flowed away like the passing tide.

“...What?” Madara’s brow cocked upward.

“You have a strong effect on me, Madara.” Hashirama’s lips curled up at the corners. The brunette leaned forward abruptly as he reached for the other boy and gripped him by the back of the head. Their lips met roughly with their teeth clattering together from unpracticed haste. Hashirama’s lips tugged into a wider grin as he murmured a soft apology against the other boy’s mouth.

It wasn’t the first time they came together in intimacy. Born from the passion that flowed through them when they trained a week ago, a grappling match turned into fumbling hands and questing mouths. They spoke nothing of their clans, they spoke nothing of who they were outside of their rendezvous but battle was fresh in both of their minds. Madara bore a wound that would have killed a lesser combatant and Hashirama reeled from the death of yet another child that he had known for as long as his memory served him.

Both boys were shaking from the myriad of emotions that flowed through their veins, emotions that bore no tempering from age, only the violent upheaval of youth. The need to feel alive, the need for physical recognition that they still walked the physical plane, it overtook them and engulfed them. There was pain, uncertainty, and awkward confusion but when they lay spent and curled into one another, it was with the unfaltering knowledge that they truly had lived to see another day and would see another battle.

Neither spoke of the incident after their high eased but neither needed words for their encounter, just as Madara felt no need to question the insistent press of Hashirama’s lips to his own now that the brunette leaned into him and gripped the back of his neck desperately. A fear nagged at both of them with every meeting, and it was a fear that was almost given a voice as they rested in the grass.

What of when this field was discovered?

What of when their meetings could be no more?

What of--

Hashirama edged himself forward and caused Madara to lean back with a sharp intake of breath. The hand that gripped the back of his neck released him and instead fell between them, to seek a new grip. The end of Madara’s breath tapered into a groan as heat pooled in the pit of his stomach. The raven-haired boy pulled his mouth away and turned a cursory gaze over their surroundings. He cursed his lack of sharingan to see more of their surroundings but even if it had been a power he’d awakened, the sight of the crimson and black doujutsu would have given away far too much. 

“Nervous?” Hashirama’s hot breath ghosted over the flesh of his ear as he whispered into it.

“Cautious,” the counter was spoken with a sharp tone as Madara jumped to sudden action. He grabbed Hashirama by the shoulders and pulled him roughly to the side and pinned the brunette on his back. He was gifted with the carefree laughter that Madara knew no one else to possess. A carefree laugh that both infuriated him and brought a begrudging smile to his lips.

“That’s a simple way of putting that you’re too scared to let me lead.”

The bold statement caused Madara to pause before he pushed a knee between Hashirama’s legs and pressed it to his friend’s blatant desire. “I just know that you’d be terrible at it.”

Hashirama’s features filled with despair as he reached up to thread his fingers into Madara’s thick mane and tugged the boy’s mouth down to meet his in another desperate search for confirmation that this moment of freedom from war was still theirs to experience. “You don’t need to be so straightforward about your thoughts on that.” Hashirama lamented with their lips still brushing.

His lament was short lived as teeth nipped at his bottom lip and Madara dropped his weight to grind himself down against his friend through their clothing. “Shut up and stop being so depressed.” The raven-tressed boy muttered as his lips trailed down to find his friend’s neck. He nuzzled into the crook and inhaled the musk of Hashirama’s scent and listened as the brunette groaned and rolled his hips up into him.

“Madara, I want it.” The shameless admission sent a shiver down Madara’s back as he pulled away to view Hashirama’s features, to see his closed eyes and parted lips as his breath picked up from a different type of exertion. “Last time, I keep remembering it. Again, let’s again.”

“Hashirama--” Whether protest or agreeance, the words were cut off as the brunette sought out Madara’s mouth once more. Whatever words Madara had been intent on speaking were lost on Hashirama’s lips. Whatever thoughts he possessed, were lost among the plane’s of his only friend’s willing form.

\------

Raven-black hair clung to pale skin as a young man who had likely yet to see his twenty-fifth year started awake and pushed aside the layers of furs that covered his sweat soaked form. A pair of crimson eyes peer out into the darkness of the cave he slept within, the fire that smoldered nearby failing to provide light, let alone heat, due to non attendance. Not that light mattered, not with the doujutsu that viewed the night as day and burned from within his eye sockets. His chakra reserves, while they seemed to increase as the days passed, failed to provide him what he needed to function. To feel whole. Within minutes of his survey, the crimson in his eyes faded to their crippled coal black.

The man slowly dragged himself up against the cool wall of the cave as he drew the furs back around his form to fight against the chilled air that nipped at his damp flesh. His thin fingers reached up to press against his lips where he still felt the pair belonging to the compassionate boy in his dream. His voice still rung vividly in his mind, even as he felt the warmth of the boy’s body beneath his own. The man swallowed thickly as he leaned his head back against the stone and stared up at the jagged ceiling. 

Would tedious memories continue to plague him? These disjointed memories that provided him no true clue to the betrayal that gripped his soul, the rage that burned in his chest, but a sense of peace from flashes of scenes that only brought him confusion and uneasiness.

He shook his head and dropped his gaze down to the pack that rested beside him and was positioned in front of a simple and unornamented gunbai. Beside the leather pack was a stack of books and a newspaper he had carefully acquired from the nearby town before he found his cave to gather his thoughts, information, and formulate a plan.

He had awoken several hours walk from here with no direction, no contact, no reasonable clue to where he was or why. The town had shocked him with it’s strangely shaped buildings and the technology that so blatantly convenienced the lives of those it served. He sought the newspaper first and from there, as his mind churned through the information he received, he sought the books.

Books on history, legends, and myths. Books that detailed the past two decades and then the decade previous, that his memories failed to fully conjure. 

It was within that cave that Uchiha Madara fully accepted that twenty-one years had passed since he had failed to realize his dreams and create his utopia. It was within that cave that Uchiha Madara parsed through tall-tales depicting his villainous deeds that he fought with the sense of amicable brotherhood that lingered as his very last memory. It was within that cave that Uchiha Madara discovered the new Akatsuki and with it mention of the Uchiha clan and Izanagi. It was within that cave that Uchiha Madara read of Iwa declaring war on Konoha and of rumors of the Fifth Shinobi World War beginning in earnest.

It was within that cave that Uchiha Madara realized just how drastically that not only his dream had failed, but that of his dear friend, had never reached fruition. 

“Perhaps we were too hasty, old friend.” His breath billowed visibly from his lips as he spoke out into the chilled air. “However it seems that the next generation has yet to learn. I believe I will need to teach them in your place.” 

Madara paused as he sunk himself down into the furs as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him without warning or mercy. It had barely been twelve hours since he had awoken and whatever vessel he found himself in, struggled to contain him. His dark eyes drew closed as his head hit the bundle of cloth that he had turned into a pillow.

He knew more dreams would come, he only hoped they would help bring sense to the chaos that raged like a cacophony of incoherent screaming in his head. Sense that allow him to finally see the realization of a dream born over a century previous.


	2. Rebirth

Fear.

The thin, skeletal fingers of fear clawed at Madara’s throat and halted his breath. Pain spread in his lungs as he struggled desperately to draw in the oxygen that his body begged and pleaded to mate with once more. A second breath caused the youkai that clung in his trachea to dislodge enough that some relief was found. The air was sweet and his lungs craved more of its taste and struggled more fiercely to find relief from its longing. 

With the third breath Madara’s chest spasm violently as a cough overtook his body. The pain that he once believed to only be in his lungs blossomed to encompass every muscle that he consciously recognized and that centralized as piercing agony in his skull. His face contorted in a silent scream as willpower alone allowed him to drag himself off of the cold surface he found himself lying on.

The act did him little favors as even with his eyes clenched tightly closed, the world seemed to tilt and spin around him. Madara fought the urge to curl forward as a wave of nausea rolled over him to add further misery to his agony and caused the acrid taste of bile to envelop his mouth. The silent scream shifted to a distasteful snarl and the shift in his expression sent another throb shooting through his skull. 

The pain centralized after the white flash of pain subsided back into what was becoming manageable torment. It was a throbbing that settle behind his eyes, which only grew more insistent as he struggled to open them and view his surroundings. Madara clenched his hands into tight fists as he fought through the agony that spread through his body the moment that the dull light of his surroundings slid past the protection of his eyelids and into retina that burned with a sensitivity that he hadn’t felt since his youth. 

A curse slipped past his lips with a hoarse voice from a dry throat. The thought of clenching his eyes closed once more and laying back down wherever he was and waiting for his anguish to pass was an appealing one.

Appealing but cowardly and weak. 

Uchiha Madara was anything but cowardly and weak.

Resolve that had pushed him through countless trials pumped adrenaline through his veins as he pulled open his eyes the rest of the way and clenched the stone ground beneath him to keep himself steady as his vision went white. A gasp pulled from his raw throat that turned to a growl as he fought for sight past the fear that thumped in his chest.

Sight. He needed sight. He needed sight when his arms felt like they were weighed by lead and his muscles felt atrophied with their lack of response. He needed sight when every joint in his body seemed to be screaming at the mere thought of performing their basic job.

His eyes, his precious eyes, were they--?

Madara reached out with his innate senses, grasping for signatures of chakra further then what his instincts immediately searched for. The dull pulse of lesser chakra responded to his search, but there was nothing of true note. 

No shinobi nor human civilians were near.

It was a small comfort but a comfort nonetheless. It eased his worry and eased the requirement for instant results. Madara drew in a slow and steady breath through his nose and filled his burning lungs to their full capacity. He held the oxygen in his lungs until the leisurely count of four before he pushed the used air from his form in a small stream from pursed lips. His eyes remained opened and by the fifth breath, world of white had formed blurred lines, lines that soon leaked in color. The tenth deflating of his lungs found his surroundings sharpened and as distinct as the flickering fire that lit them allowed.

Instincts urged Madara to pull his chakra up to his eyes as he strained to take in his surroundings past the line of the dim fire, however the moment the bubbling heat of his chakra gathered behind his optic nerves, his vision flickered white once more. The man growled in frustration and pain as he pressed the heel of his palm to his left eye with gritted teeth.

This time his vision restored itself only after two breaths. Lines solidified, color returned, and with displeasure coursing through his being, he swallowed back the urge to sharpen his sight with the sharingan he knew rested within his retina. Instead, he settled for what his dark eyes could pick up with their own ability and found his surroundings only sparked questions rather than answers.

Confusion replaced the fear that he had awoken with. The fire that provided him his only light, flickered and burned low. The wood that acted as its fuel was dark, and the stones that surrounded the kindling had been haphazardly and clumsily placed around it. The chill in the air and the smooth natural stone walls that surrounded him on all but one side spoke of a cave of some sort. The ground sloped up on the one side that didn’t enclose him and faded into pitch blackness. Madara once again found himself fighting the urge to see past his limitations and turned his attention back to his immediate setting, though his chakra still discreetly reached and swept past his vision. 

He wouldn’t let himself be caught by surprise.

Further investigation found himself sitting beside a blank scroll that nearly stretched to his full height. Beside that was an upturned bottle of ink, a discarded quill, and splatters of something dark -- but not quite the black of the ink -- that stained the gray stone. Madara’s lips pulled into a thin line as he shakily pulled himself onto his knees. He crawled the short distance to the unknown splatters and pressed his fingers on the spot. It was still wet, warm, and when he pulled his fingers away, the pads of them were stained crimson.

Blood.

Madara’s brow furrowed as he sat back on his heels and continued his survey. Past him and toward the fire once more. Beside it was a thick leather pack, as well as two smaller pouches, all three of which were fat with their contents. The flames sparked a bit brighter as it devoured it’s fuel, and brought his attention past it and toward the wall that it burned near. Leaned against the stone was a gunbai. It was tall, likely as tall as he, and bore the design of three tomoe on either side of it’s wooden surface.

Recognition caused a jolt of pleasure to spark through him as he forced himself up to his feet. His legs shook and trembled as he forced them to carry his weight, with them giving way when he straightened. Another curse spilled past his lips as he caught himself with his hands with another growl following promptly afterward. With his eyes narrowed and his teeth gritted together, Madara pushed past the throbbing pain that blossomed back into his skull and the aching that encompassed every moving joint in his body. He regained his footing and stood, his body tense but his legs slowly came under his authority and allowed him to take a half-step forward.

Madara’s gaze locked on the weapon in the distance. The familiarity reached out to him with a comforting air that brought a gentle pleasure in to soothe the feelings of pain that encompassed his entire recollection. He grasped for the pleasure just as he eagerly stumbled toward the weapon that sat contently against the wall with such an unassuming air--

Unassuming?

No.

Madara halted midstep and stared at the weapon with widening eyes. His gunbai was far from unassuming. It radiated with the power of the tree it had been carved from and its very presence sung to him of the promise of battle and the exhilarating torrent of euphoria that it brought. This… this did not sing to him that promise. No, it didn’t even breathe a whisper.

This weapon was not his beloved.

Where? Where was it? Where could it be? He never would have let it free from his grasp as long as he drew breath--

No sooner had the thought flickered through his throbbing mind, did a torrent of memories flash greedily through his mind. A yell that tore volume from Madara’s throat and tore at his raw and dry voice as he dropped to one knee and clawed at his temples in a desperation to halt the flashes that overwhelmed his senses.

_One flash saw Madara’s brother, young and devoted Izuna, looking at him with awe as he offered a hand to help Izuna to his feet. Even as his lips spread into a wide smile and he proclaimed that in the next spar he would win, Izuna only saw his elder brother with respect and adoration. It was a love that was clear in the gleam of his dark eyes, as the sharingan faded from their depths. It was a love that Madara felt deep in his chest, a love that was nearly suffocating with its intensity and with it the enveloping desperation to protect._

_Another flash. He and Izuna were back to back, his kama was dripping blood while Izuna used his foot to hold down the corpse of the man that was impaled on his own sword. Tears poured unfettered down the cheeks of the younger Uchiha as he stared down at the lifeless eyes of a cousin whose face had been known to him since birth. Izuna’s hyperventilation behind him only steeled Madara’s heart, even as grief and pain stung at his chest. Power, more power then his sharingan ever gathered, pooled behind his eyes before it exploded into white agony that blurred his vision and caused Madara to stumble._

_The power and pain of Mangekyo Sharingan._

_The tablet didn’t lie._

Madara forced open his eyes once more as he curled down and stared down at the gray stone beneath him. He felt moisture welling in his eyes in conjunction with the pressure of chakra before it dropped to stain the ground crimson. The pain from his waking returned, unfocusing his gaze as the power he failed to gather pooled behind his eyes and sent waves of agony through his skull as grief raged its massacre on barely restrained emotions.

This time his vision didn’t go white.

This time his vision grew more crisp and more clear.

_Grief, agony, and despair twisted and churned within Madara. He stared down at the pale and barely breathing form of his younger brother. His last sibling, the only one to still draw breath, would soon draw his last._

_“No, Niisan…. Don't be deceived by them.”_

_Peace with the Senju? Peace for the shinobi world? It was unachievable and Izuna begged him not to acquiesce as he gave his elder brother his final gift._

_The Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan._

Madara’s whole form shook as physical pain mated eagerly with the emotional anguish that plagued him as in his mind’s eye, he watched as his brother was prepared for his funeral. Another scream tore from his throat, a scream that tapered into a pain sob before he slammed a fist into the stone with violence that split his knuckles instantly. 

_Madara shook hands with Hashirama, his dark eyes meeting the warm gaze of his childhood friend. Something stirred within the chilled depths of his steeled soul, a stirring that made him look positively to the future. His clan was around him, pleased and supportive. The Senju -- no, Hashirama, promised a bright future. He and Hashirama would lead Konohagakure no Sato into a future of growth, prosperity, and true wealth of spirit._

_“-- So you’re saying the role of Hokage is to stay in the village and protect everyone?” Madara questioned his friend with a lifted brow. They stood overlooking their village, their dream._

_“That’s only a small part of it. As our village building picks up speed, the Hokage will get busier too…. I want to have your likeness carved into this cliff face at our feet. Then even when they don’t see you, everyone will see it. The symbol of our village’s protector!”_

_Madara chuckled softly. “You’re kidding.”_

_“Though your visage is a bit too stern,” Hashirama returned Madara’s laughter with a wide smile and a wink. “So it’ll need to be softened a bit.”_

Hashirama…. The grief eased in his chest and allowed him to uncurl from the ground as he fought to gain control over his labored breathing. He lifted his head and pressed his fingers to his damp cheeks. He pulled them away to find their pads covered with the bloodied tears that fell from his crimson gaze. After the pain of his clan, of Izuna, of all of the loss, there had been hope. A promise for a future.

A promise squashed beneath the feet of subjugation, bias, and further hate.

_Madara crouched outside of the window of Hashirama’s home and listened as Senju Tobirama spouted his discouragement._

_“Uchiha Madara would never be selected to lead us. Everyone knows that you’re the driving force behind the village. Even the Uchiha are willing to acknowledge that. Besides which… have you not heard the rumors about the Uchiha? The stronger their hate, the greater their ocular powers. That is the secret of the sharingan. You can never tell what they might do, so for the sake of the village’s future--”_

_“Quit saying such things, Tobirama!”_

_Madara slipped from the rooftop with a clenched jaw and rage boiling in his stomach. The Senju… Hashirama may wish for peace and equality, but it wasn’t a dream known or desired by all._

_Tobirama... Izuna’s murderer. Madara choked on another sob that turned into a snarled curse as the vision of Hashirama garbed as Hokage flickered in his mind’s eye. Betrayal coiled in his stomach and expanded until it nearly overpowered the pain that still coursed through his head._

_Madara fixed Hashirama with a sneer. He looked regal in the regalia of the Hokage. He still managed to look kind, approachable, and every bit the warm sun that would soon burn out and plunge the world into a winter of war._

_“It’s so much sounder to just see this world as entertainment.” Madara mused with a chuckle._

_“Are you listening to me at all, Madara?!” There was pleading in Hashirama’s voice, a desperation that Madara felt nothing for except unadulterated disgust._

_“You’re the only one who’s an even match for me. I’m looking forward to the battles we’ll fight up until the time I achieve my true dream.”_

_Battles. There were so many battles but few between he and Hashirama. It was his last in his first life, that he saw his old friend once more. Madara knew nothing except hatred and resolve. He felt nothing except the seething and pulsating growth of betrayal and the euphoria of battle. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue and left his head spinning in ecstasy._

_He would realize his dreams._

_But not then, not that time._

_The blade pierced him from behind and Madara couldn’t help but feel morbid amusement. Of course it would have been Hashirama to take his back._

_“I shall not tolerate anyone who seeks to harm the village, be they friend, brother, or even my very own child.” Hashirama’s voice was soft but resolute._

_So this was the man titled Hokage. His own child though…?_

_He would cut down his very own child?_

Madara snarled again as he forced himself to move despite his torment and sat back on his heels. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and dragged them down his face. He felt the moisture, the blood, smear across his pale skin. He brought the heels of his palms to his mouth and ran his tongue eagerly along their surface. 

Metallic.

His own blood coated his tongue and sent a wave of pleasure through his form as he drew in a deep breath. He filled his lungs with oxygen and squeezed his hands back into fists. Whether the pain was lessening as it pulsed through his skull or he was growing used to its presence, Madara wasn’t sure. 

The memories still flowed unfettered.

_The dark-haired Uchiha boy yelled in determination with every swing of the chain he held. His jaw was clenched and determination coiled within every muscle and permeated every fiber of his being. Madara watched, weaker than before, with a thin smile on his lips. Uchiha Obito embodied the will of the clan Madara had given everything for in his youth. Uchiha Obito, young, powerful, and eager to return to a place where he had no future._

_Madara still clung to his dreams, to a future that had been promised to him on a stone tablet that only those of his clan’s lineage could begin to decipher. He clung to dreams that only Uchiha Obito could help him truly achieve._

_Cutting down one’s child. So cruel and so horrific. Killing a child wasn’t always literal. Sometimes a symbolic death was necessary. A pain felt by the parent, even as the necessity was known._

_Uchiha Obito, a son in spirit, would die for the birth of dreams that they both needed to see realized._

_Dreams._

_Another death._

_A natural death._

_No, Madara lives once more. He stands beside Uchiha Obito, now a man, and they face an army of shinobi intent on seeing to their destruction. Madara’s crimson gaze locks on the cracked visage of Senju Hashirama, the sclera of his eyes blackened. The exhilaration of the coming battle. The taste of blood on his tongue._

_The Senju--_

_Konoha--_

_The Infinite Tsukiyomi--_

Madara screams. Pain blossomed in his chest and the sense of betrayal overtook the brief pleasure the taste of his blood had provided him. However, no true memory came to join with the emotions that were brought forth. The betrayal mingled with confusion as he clawed fruitlessly for the next event, the next anguish in a life that knew only war despite the dream to embrace peace.

“My dream was squashed.” It was his own voice, raspy, ragged, and spoken in the presence. Madara lifted his gaze to swing around the chilled cave that was lit as if by the sun when viewed with the prized doujutsu of his clan. He could see the outline of trees at the mouth despite the hour of the night. 

Madara drew in another breath as he slowly crawled toward the dying fire and the packs and gunbai that had been his previous target. With every stiff and strained movement, he came to realize that the pain was fading from his head, but in its place was overwhelming exhaustion.

_“We were both too hasty.” Hashirama’s voice sounded in a dark recess of Madara’s mind. Flickers of a vast cavern and a body growing weaker with every passing second filtered through his mind. :We didn’t need to fulfill our dreams ourselves. It was more important to cultivate those who would come after us.”_

_Come after us?_

_Obito._

_Madara chuckled, though the sound lacked nearly any true volume. “I would have failed anyway…. I've always hated… having someone stand behind me.”_

_Wistful, cynical, amused…._

_Prepared to die._

_He? He, Uchiha Madara, had been prepared to die?_

_“--We’re both about to die. Right now… we can drink as war buddies.” Hashirama’s kind smile flickered into sight for a brief moment before his vision went black._

_“Well… I guess… that’s fine… by….”_

Madara’s side hits the cave wall and he slid down it with a groan. He ceased forcing strength into his legs and instead forced it to manifest in his arms. He reached for the packs near the fire and fumbled with the latches to open them and view their contents. For several minutes, as he rustled through it and drew out the objects within, he didn’t truly see them. 

The cesspit of emotions and memories that flowed through him, had left him nearly dazed as his sharingan enhanced gaze slid over the various supplies he placed down on the cave ground. Unwavering love had been trampled beneath the vicious fires of hatred and a bubbling and seething layer of betrayal and distrust. The hope and the desperate clutch for peace in his memories was restrained by the euphoric pleasure of adrenaline and the ecstasy of metallic ambrosia.

How could he have accepted death in the end? How? What was the final betrayal? Where had his plans failed? What of utopia? Where was Obito? ...Where was he, Madara, now?

Madara’s fingers brushed the bottom of the pack. The lack of anything further to grab brought him back to the present. The clarity of his vision ebbed as he lost his grasp on the chakra that kept his doujutsu active. Fresh droplets of blood dripped from his sockets unchecked as the former Uchiha patriarch dragged his blood stained fingertips over the supplies he had mindlessly placed before himself.

Kunai, shuriken, rope, bandages, salves, and a satchel that held coin if its shape and sound gave any inditiaction. A thick pouch was included amongst the goods that contained a generous supply of food pills, which paired with the water jug that was wrapped up in a leather thong to contain any condensation. 

His gaze slid up to the unfamiliar gunbai that towered over him and his lips pulled into a frown as he reached out to wrap a loose grip around it’s bandaged hilt.

It really was a decent mockery of the original.

Madara exhaled heavily and leaned his head back as he let his eyes close. The pain had completely bled from him and all that remained was the need for rest, a need that he recognized that he could only fight for so long. He struggled to maintain consciousness as he cycled through the last of his memories, the memories of him accepting a fate that he couldn’t process, a fate that made him recoil. 

He had died.

Yet here he was. There was no pull of another’s chakra, nor of another’s will. There was no signatures of another anywhere near him. 

There was no direction, only memories of a failed dream and a glorious future that was never known.

Madara’s breathing, once labored, evened as his consciousness slipped further from his bloodstained fingers. The darkness of sleep embraced him and buried him within a cycle of broken memories, chaotic emotions, and unrealized ambitions that didn’t cease until Madara knew the waking world once more.


End file.
